Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(99)

“What the criminy was that?” Holly cried, eyes welling with tears.

Greta dragged a napkin across her tongue.

Holly snatched coffee. Glug, glug, glug—desperate to rid her tongue of that horrid taste. “What was that? What happened?” What’s wrong with my pies? The taste was horrendous. Holly felt it in her nose. Greta rubbed her eyes—she couldn’t stop.

And then Holly realized . . .

Holly took hold of Greta’s wrist, holding Greta’s hand in front of Greta’s face.

“Ella’s no-bite fingernail polish. Mom,” Holly said. “It’s everywhere. We kneaded it into the dough. We spread the cherries apart with our fingernails to pit them.” Holly wanted to cry, scream, she didn’t know. “Mom. What am I going to do?” Pies covered every single surface of her kitchen, but none of them—not a single one—was edible. “The Cherry Festival is in the morning. I can’t bake another thirteen pies.”

Greta busied herself unfolding napkins to cover their pie slices. Like it hurt her to look at them, like she was holding a funeral, encasing the pies in a napkin burial cloth.

“How am I going to face Emily?”

“Stop worrying, Holly.” Greta opened countless napkins like she planned to cover every single pie in the kitchen. As the napkins hit the cherry filling, red juice stained the white paper. Like blood. Like Holly’s pies were the scene of a murder. After all that. After all that Holly’d been through. Holly wasn’t a Pie Mom. Holly was a Napkin Mom.

“Mom, stop with the napkins. You’re killing me.”

“Relax, Holly Tree. I told you I had a plan.”

“What. Quit? Drop out of Primm Academy? Sell the house? Move to Southern Lakes?”

“When you were at the eye doctor with Ella, I went on Google and found a bakery. Placed an order for thirteen ready-made cherry pies. They’ve been ready since twelve.”

“Bakery? What bakery? Where?” On second thought, Holly held her hand up. Stopped Greta from telling her what she already knew. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I know where it is. But why didn’t you tell me you ordered pies?”

“I tried—but you wouldn’t listen.” Greta tugged on Holly’s earlobe. “And besides, for a while there, it looked like we might pull it off.”

“We almost did, didn’t we?” Holly surveyed the kitchen. Their mess, their project, their win, their defeat. “I admit I fell in love with the idea of baking pies. You know those retro-looking advertisements of a 1950s mom pulling a warm pie from the oven for her smiling, expectant family? I wanted that,” Holly confessed. “I wanted what that represented: a perfect, ideal motherhood.”

“But that’s not real,” Greta said. “You’re a great mom, Holly. You were trying to help Ella break her thumb-sucking habit in a supportive way.” Greta squeezed Holly’s fingers, held one of her hands up to inspect the no-bite polish residue on Holly’s nails. “If pies represent motherhood, then I’d say you’re the best mom in town. You baked the love you feel for your daughter into each and every one of those pies.”

Holly pulled Greta close. Hugged her. Squeezed hard. “This ‘mom’ thing is so hard, and I’ve had the worst week ever. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I judged you so harshly. I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” said Greta, still tucked inside their hug. “Never mind that. Something’s wrong with Anna.”

“What do you mean?” Holly pulled herself from their embrace to look at Anna. “Oh, no!” Holly covered her mouth. Poor Anna. Our beloved Anna Wintour. Holly didn’t know how she’d missed it, but Anna was crawling with bugs. It was so bad you’d think the editor in chief of Vogue magazine had head lice.

“Mom. What am I going to do? Now I have to kill Anna Wintour. Torch her. Burn her at the stake.” The thought was almost more than Holly could bear. “Ella’s tooth is in there.”





41


Friday night



Greta stayed home with Ella while Holly drove to the bakery to pick up the pies. It was dark out, so dark Holly couldn’t see the toy clutter on the Southern Lakes lawns and could barely make out the pink flamingo lawn ornaments as she drove through town. When the sun wasn’t shining on the other side of the fence, Southern Lakes looked a lot like the Village of Primm.

Jack called. “Leaving work now. Repair shop said your Suburban is ready. We can pick it up tomorrow. Where are you?”

“Headed to a bakery in Southern Lakes before they close. Picking up pies.”

It was quiet on the other end until Holly heard a chuckle from Jack as he pieced it together. “Well, at least you tried.”

“Anna Wintour’s on the front porch. Covered in bugs.” It hurt just saying it. “Hey, Jack, can we switch cars? I don’t want to deliver pies for a school auction in a smelly rental.”

“Sure. Leaving now. But what do you want to do with Anna Wintour? Burn her to death and then bury her in a ditch?”

“Stop. Don’t talk like that. It’s sad, Jack. But yes, we probably should. But I don’t want Ella knowing her parents burned Anna to death. When you get home, put her in a trash bag. There’s a burning at the Topiary Park tonight.” So sad. It was horrible just thinking about it. “Meet me at the bakery? It’s on Main in Southern Lakes.”